I'll Meet the Raging of the Skies
by TeamConHeir
Summary: London, 1901. John Egbert comes to the smoggy city with only his name and a pilot's license. Forced to join the notorious pirate Vriska Serket's fleet, he never expects to become a public enemy, or be the driving force behind a civil war. It's the law against the pirates and no one is fighting fair. Steampunk AU, ships within.
1. The Barmaid's Secret

**Ships, as promised: John/Vriska, Dave/Jade, Karkat/Terezi, Dirk/Jake, Kanaya/Rose, more to be added.**

The steamboat docked in the London Harbor at just past six in the afternoon. It was a fine ship, chugging smoothly across the Atlantic without stopping, and still offering utmost comfort to the passengers. John Egbert watched the harbor grow larger as he propped himself up on the rail circling the deck. He breathed in the coal-tainted air and allowed a small, slightly buck-toothed smile. He was certain that he'd made the right choice.

John's coming to England had not sat well with his father at first. Mr. Egbert argued that all of the opportunities to be found in Great Britain could just as easily be found in America. John had explained that he only wanted to be a pilot, and because of the prominence of river and train travel in the United States, there was simply no demand for airplanes. London, however, was a capital of machinery the likes of which was not seen worldwide. In the end, his father had lent him the money for his ticket and given him his blessing.

John braced his gloved hands on the rail as the ship came to a rocky stop. He reached into his waistcoat and clicked open his silver pocket watch, a gift from his soon-to-be-roommate, Dave Strider. Dave, a native Brit, was one of the most highly sought watch makers in the country. He had studied at Dartmouth College in America the year before, which was how the two had come to meet. Dave had immediately offered John room and board when he'd learned that his classmate was on his way from across the pond.

A steward picked up John's suitcases and guided him onto the ramp that sloped to the dock. John handed him a few notes (as he had smartly converted his American currency into British pounds, shillings, and pennies) and took up his luggage. There was a light London drizzle in the air, but his spirits were high. Even as he was shoved to and fro on the dock he kept up a bright grin. The gruff sailors looked at him as if her was running around stark naked.

He eventually made his way off the docks and onto the street, which was marred here and there by the odd automobile or two. The young man set his bags down and waited for a taxi, rocking on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He tipped his hat down to keep the rain out of his eyes. He looked like a regular old Brit, he thought. Too bad his American accent would absolutely ruin the façade.

A taxi nearly passed him, but his frantic waving flagged down the driver. He stowed his luggage in the boot of the car and dove into the mercifully dry back seat.

"Where to, aye?" the driver asked, through a thick accent.

John read the address he'd been given to the man, an address in the centre of London. They left the great River Thames behind as the taxi sped up. Excitement gripped John; he was confident that everything would go smoothly. This was his chance, after all.

Dave's shop was deep in the metropolis of London. The cab left John on a wide, busy street, packed with automobiles and people and horse-drawn carts. The smell of horse droppings was just under the scents of coal and smoke. John hefted his luggage up ― the rain was beginning to fall more urgently ― and dashed in front of a carriage's horses. He crossed Dave's threshold with the carriage's driver screaming curses at his back.

The shop was warm and dim, lit only by a medley of lamps and the fireplace. John passed an unmanned counter and stared around unabashedly. Dave's finished watches and other timekeeping devices were laid out in display cases along the wood-paneled walls and on a table in the center of the room. They were all of the finest quality, which was what Dave was known for. Unsure of what to do, John tapped his foot on the wine red carpet a few times and reached over, pulling the string on the front desk's bell.

"It's about time you got here," Dave Strider said in greeting, appearing from a back room noiselessly.

"Dave!" John dropped his suitcases and shook Dave's hand fiercely, smile bright. "Glad to see you, too!"

"Calm down, Mr. Egbert," another voice said, amused. "That's so unbecoming of a young man like yourself."

A young woman, barely out of her teens by the looks of it, also emerged from the back room. Her long black hair was twisted into a messy knot at the back of her neck. She wore an apron over her clothes, which she wiped her oil-stained hands on.

"You must be Jade," John inferred, bowing his head to Dave's fiancé. He was well versed in British culture and knew to treat a lady with respect, especially if she was married or engaged. "Pleasure to meet you."

She smiled at him. "And you're John. I take it we'll be seeing a lot of you?"

"More than I'd like to see," Dave muttered, though he couldn't have minded John's staying with him; he had suggested it, after all.

"Oh, quiet, you," Jade chided. "It's an honor, John. Now I need to get back to my work. Mr. Zahhak won't be pleased if I shuck my responsibilities."

"What's her work?" John asked as she departed again.

"Automatons," Dave replied. "She's trying to fix up an old robot. Frankly, it doesn't make sense to me. I'll stick to clocks." As he spoke, he showed John the engagement ring he wore: it was fashioned like a gear.

"That's enough chit chat," the clock maker said. "You'd best take your things up. Your room is upstairs, second one on the right."

"Thanks again!" John called as he carried his luggage into a slightly hidden alcove and up a winding staircase. He followed Dave's instructions and let himself into a bland bedroom, unmarked by any indication that it had ever been slept in. He whistled a tune while he put his clothes away, then sat down on the edge of the bed. It was time to get his thoughts in order.

He already knew exactly where he needed to go to find work. All rich men and aircraft owners seeking pilots went to the docks that he had just left and put up their queries in the local pubs, hoping to weed out respectable young workers to fly their planes, deliver their packages, and so on. John prayed that he'd be able to find work soon; he would run out of money soon enough, and the thought of asking Dave for anything more felt horrible and selfish.

* * *

Dave offered to let John drive his personal automobile to the docks, but John felt bashful accepting such luxuries from someone who had already given him so much. The clock maker managed to get John to at least take the horse he kept in the back lot. Grudgingly, John fitted a saddle on the steed and swung onto it.

The horse's hooves clopped on the cobblestone rhythmically, soothing John's nerves. He was justifiably anxious. For all he knew, he'd never get a job; he'd be stuck unemployed and useless forever, maybe have to go crawling back to the states, to his smug father.

The traffic cleared as he approached the docks, which were chock-full of bars and pubs and shanties. He had no idea concerning which one to pick. In the end, he tied the horse up in front of the largest, most inviting pub and stepped inside, worrying his hat between his hands.

The pub was loud, crowded, and reeked of alcohol. But he saw more than a few wealthy folks in the mass. That was good. Wealthy men had money and nothing to do with it, which was when they bought planes they couldn't pilot and ships they couldn't sail.

John hung his hat and overcoat on the hooks by the door and sat on a bar stool. He scanned his eyes across the walls, picking out a few fliers that were too small to read. He wagered that they were what he was looking for.

"Can I get you something, sir?"

He started in surprise. The barmaid was watching him with guarded green eyes, wondering if he perhaps drunk? But no, had she already served him? He saw in the questions in her expression.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was distracted. I think I'll have water, please."

She seemed surprised, but slid a glass of water to him nonetheless. After a moment, she confronted him again. "You're not from around here, are you?"

His cheeks burned with embarrassment. "It's that obvious?"

"Yes," she confirmed, smiling at his bashfulness. "But that's alright. My name is Kanaya. And you are?"

"John. John Egbert," he told her, shaking hands. He handed her a tip in the same gesture, which she tucked into the corset of her dress.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Egbert. You seem to be looking for something."

"I am," he said, drinking from his water. "I came to London to be a pilot. Everyone I've talked to had told me I'll find work here."

She nodded at this. "You will. I see young men like yourself get employed left and right. However…" Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she was not supposed to say what was spilling from her mouth. "If you can't find any work at all, and you're _absolutely _desperate, come see me."

He quirked an eyebrow at her strange behavior, but the man next to him was watching the exchange with interest, so Kanaya moved on quickly. "And if you ever need the services of a tailor, I can help you with that." She handed him a slip of parchment, her card, indicating that she was indeed a tailor of the highest caliber.

"Thank you," he said slowly, nodding to her. He moved to the far wall and read the fliers. Many of them were seeking pilots, to his relief. He copied down the telephone numbers of possible employers in his pocket book and snapped it shut. He had enough change to go to the telephone booth outside and make the calls, though it would take some time.

Good thing he had a lot of that.

* * *

Equius Zahhak owned a shop not far from Dave's, littered with scraps of brass and copper and more screws than could be counted without a difference engine. From the ceiling hung the skeletons of half-finished automatons and other robotic projects. Equius was one of the best in the field, had good business, and loved his work.

Jade Harley, soon to be Jade Strider, arrived at the shop with a hard face; she would impress the boss today, but not the way she wanted to. She hopped down from the carriage, paid a beggar boy to tie up the horses, and had him carry the large man-sized box she'd brought along into the shop with her.

"Bloody 'ell," he panted, once the box had been set down inside. "Whatchoo got in there, Missus?"

"Something special," she said, not smiling. She gave him a few shillings, which he gratefully accepted as he left. Her boss had his black-tinted spectacles in one hand when he stepped around the counter to take a look for himself.

"I presume you finished your task?" Equius asked, pulling on his fingerless gloves to peek into the box. He pried off the lid easily with his abnormally muscular arms.

"I did," she said, heavily. "It was better than I expected."

"We shall see." He gripped the box's inhabitant and shifted it carefully out onto the nearest table.

It was an automaton, plated in shining reflective brass. The shape and size resembled that of a human man with eerie accuracy. Equius breathed out loudly though his nose, picking up the machine's skeletal hand gently and observing its fingers. They were not as human-like, and therefore slightly bulky, as the rest of the pseudo-body. The fingers were delicate and spindly. Capable, he knew, of very precise motion.

"You didn't…?"

His question trailed off. Eyes hard, Jade reached into her overcoat, withdrawing an ancient pistol. It was an older model; it shot bullets, not the kind that exploded on impact, or beams of aether like the newer plasma guns. She passed the weapon to him. Hands shaking, Equius arranged the automaton's fingers so that they held the gun the way a human would.

"Did you test it?" he inquired.

"No."

He swallowed, aware that she had quite possibly solved a problem that had plagued engineers since the first successful automaton had come about.

Hesitantly, he reached around, fingertips feeling for the machine's switch, on the back of its neck. He found it and flicked it on.

The automaton's eyelids fluttered, though its sockets had no eyes, only sensors. It sat up woodenly. Equius and Jade watched in silence, waiting to see if it would, by some terrible miracle, do what Sollux Captor had programmed it to do: shoot.

The problem was not in Sollux's handiwork. Mr. Captor was one of the best when it came to difference and analytical engines; it if took a punch-card, he knew what he was doing. The problem was that modern mechanics had trouble creating an automaton that had limbs precise enough, strong enough, and at the same time small enough to handle a weapon. It seemed that Jade Harley had figured it out.

The automaton, like it was made to, pointed the gun at its own head, blinked once more, and pulled the trigger.

Equius didn't care that the bullet ruined the engine in its metal skull. He did not care that the bullet lodged itself in the far wall, or that the gun fell and skidded under a table, or that the damaged robot collapsed heavily on his hands.

He only knew that it was possible, and this was not good.

"Well," Jade said. "I suppose that question is answered."

"Quite." He threw the destroyed automaton into the scrap pile behind him, to recycle its parts, and leaned heavily on the table. He was only twenty-five, but he felt older.

"You know what this means," she said gravely.

"It means," he said, a light sheen of sweat collecting on his skin, under his apron and sleeves and trousers. "It means, Ms. Harley, that if we can do it, someone else can."

* * *

"Adventurer for hire," Jake English shouted to the passerby, desperate. "Adventurer's services, low price! Will pay for transportation," he said, voice weakening.

He heaved a sigh and sat down on the sidewalk, boots inches from passing automobiles. Things were not looking good for him. He hated it, but he realized that he would just have to accept the facts. Adventurers were simply dying out, crushed in the wake of modern technology.

Jake spun his twin pistols, sleek black weapons that weren't common. Most guns were fashioned with brass plating, but he'd had the custom-made aether-shooting plasma pistols special made for his adventures. Adventures, he feared, that would never come to fruition. By the looks of things he'd have to give up on his dreams of an adrenaline-laced life of death-defying exploits.

There was a roar, and Jake jumped back from the roadside as an automobile nearly hit him. It was gaudy, expensive, and definitely not owned by and upstanding society man. The flame-painted door opened and an unfamiliar man stepped out.

"Adventurer, eh?" he asked, spitting tobacco into the gutter and kicking the sign Jake held lightly. "I know someone who could use you, lad. What's your name?"

"Jake English," he answered, shaking hands and getting to his feet. "Who wants to know?"

"You ever hear of Dirk Strider?" When Jake shook his head, the man continued. "Great mechanic, that one. He's recruiting young scrappers like yourself to watch out for him and his shop."

"Like some sort of body guard?"

"A bit," he agreed. "But Mr. Strider gets up to a lot of trouble these days. You won't be bored, I promise."

"Is that so?" It wasn't exactly what Jake was hoping for, but he needed money; no time to complain about how he got it. "You're on. When do I start?"

He scribbled something down on a sheaf of parchment and handed it over. "Come to this address whenever you're ready."

The man said his goodbyes and climbed back into his ostentatious vehicle. Jake waited until it was around the corner to pick up his damp sign, stuff the address in his pocket, and start for home. He had the feeling working for Mr. Strider would be an ordeal.

* * *

Terezi Pyrope's office was in the depths of the police headquarters, cramped and messy, as was befitting for a detective of her rank. Her high scores on her entrance exam were the only reason she'd been granted her own office at all. The other young officer in her class were stuck carrying around heavy briefcases that barely closed, stuffed so full of documents that they were fit to burst any second.

She ran her fingertips over the report she'd just received in her mailbox upstairs, reading Braille with practiced ease. None of the information came as a surprise to her. Pirate raids on the water, pirate raids in the air. Thousands of pounds in goods, gone. Same old, same old.

The perpetrators were yet to be identified, but she could guess. The attacks on the sea fit a particular criminal's profile to the letter ― a criminal that she, and everyone else, had little chance of convicting. His social status protected him from the brunt of the law; even when he was caught, which was infrequent, he left the courtroom with a slap on the wrist. But she would get him eventually. Patience, she believed, was the best weapon a detective wielded.

The raids in the air over London were even more obvious, bat at the same time more difficult to crack. Everyone and their mum knew who was responsible. This criminal, however, managed to slip through the fingers of the police like oil time and time again. Terezi's patience was wearing thin with the air pirate, a woman who she thought she knew, once upon a time.

Terezi took a calming breath and organized her papers. She was fully briefed, though she didn't need to be. She was too young, too inexperienced to be assigned to either case. Just like every other time these two pulled off some big heists. Her superiors promised that one day, her skill would be used to apprehend them; until that day, she was stuck finding petty thieves and minor offenders.

It was frustrating, at times. She knew, given the chance, that she could end the pirate's reign of terror. She would have them hanged before the spring. They left such glaringly obvious clues, too. Yet every time she tried to bring a tip to a senior detective, she was brushed off. Too young. Too inexperienced.

No use dwelling, she decided, firmly. Who said she couldn't pursue the criminals? If she were to convict them, with or without permission, it was still a public service. They were the filth of London. People would thank her for her relentless victory.

A quiet knock interrupted her silent resolves. "Come in!"

Karkat Vantas slammed the door behind him loudly, hard enough that the door shook in its frame. That was why she knew it was him. No one else came to a detective's door, knocked respectfully, then kicked the door shut carelessly. Only Karkat.

"Good evening." His American accent was hard on her fine-tuned ears. Though he was London-born, he'd spent his childhood in a New York City orphanage. He'd only been in England since his twenty-first birthday three years prior.

"Good evening, Mr. Vantas," she said, smirking. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know exactly why I'm here, Detective," he spat, sitting down in the chair before her desk. Between her chair, his chair, the desk, and the bookshelf, there was barely enough room to maneuver.

She smiled wider and reached into her left desk drawer, extracting a pitifully thin folder. It was labeled "Vantas" and filled with a mixture of Braille documents she'd been given and Braille documents she'd personally written on her modified typewriter.

"Have you made any progress?" he asked, irritable and hopeful at the same time.

"None," she answered brightly. "But don't worry, Karkat. I'll find your parents' killer."

This was a bold promise, considering she had been working the case since the day he'd returned to London. Three years of interviewing back-alley scum and paying interns with working eyes to dig through thousands of documents had produced little to nothing, though she had an eye-witness to the crime; unfortunately, the eye-witness was sitting inches from her and had been about two-and-a-half years old at the time.

He sighed heavily. "Thanks anyway. Look, I can't stay long, I have to get back to work. Just wanted to drop my, just in case."

She patted his gloved hand sympathetically. "Don't give up hope, chap. Chin up! I'll finish this."

He stood up, retracting his hand as if he'd been burned. "Fine. Goodbye."

He stalked out of her office. The whole exchange couldn't have taken more than a few minutes. Terezi brushed her fingers over the wall clock Dave Strider had personally made her; it was faceless, allowing her to feel exactly where the minute and hour hands were. It was nearing eight-thirty. Time to pack up and head home, she reminded herself, tidying up her mess of papers and files. She took her cane and paused with her hand on the door knob.

Her decision to find and apprehend the pirates swam back into her head. It was stupid, honestly; she could be fired. But she hadn't joined the police force for the job, had she? She'd joined to do what was right. And she knew, in her very core, that this was right. That maybe, perhaps, she was the only person who could stop this.

Which was really a ridiculous notion, when she thought about it.

Not that it would stop her.

* * *

By the time John finished up making his calls, and visited the other pubs, a week had passed. He had absolutely no job offers and very little hope. He walked all the way to the pub, in the rain, head down. At the bar, he ordered ale, and drank from it deeply. Kanaya watched him knowingly.

"Alright," he said after a while. "I give up. I need your help."

"You're sure?"

"Very."

She sighed and motioned for him to lean closer. "I can arrange your employment with a close friend of mine, but there's a bit of a catch."

He swallowed, hands wrapped around his glass. "A catch?"

"That's why you should only agree to this if you're completely desperate. You see, it wouldn't be entirely _legal_, per say."

At his wide eyes, she waved on hand. "You won't have to hurt anyone, Mr. Ebert. I like to think you'll be like Robin Hood. Taking from the rich to give to the poor."

"You mean to say I'll be a _thief_?"

"Not so much a thief as a…" She hesitated her, nails tapping lightly on the polished bar. "Pirate."

His mouth fell slack. He knew all about pirates; they were quite commonplace in England. Many of them outfitted their boats and submarines to attack unsuspecting ocean liners, while others took to the skies in airships and planes. All of them were ruthless. He couldn't imagine being one of them, not for a second.

"Are you daffy?" he whispered, afraid someone would over hear.

She gave him a sharp look. "If you aren't interested you can move on and kindly keep your mouth shut. And if anyone asks you, you didn't hear any of this from me."

He was seconds from declining. His mouth opened, formed around the word "No"; but he stopped. He thought of Dave and Jade, eyeing him when they thought he wasn't looking. They had every right to. A whole week had passed, yet he had no income. He felt his cheeks burn just thinking about it. It was embarrassing, not being able to pay his friends something for room and board, though Dave never asked.

Maybe this was what John needed? No, how preposterous. He couldn't turn himself over to a life of crime ― or could he? He would be doing what he loved, after all, and making money while doing it. He would be able to give Dave some compensation. He wouldn't have to go back to the States, or his father.

Temporarily, he decided, he could be a pirate. Just until he found employment. No more than that.

Well, this was probably the biggest mistake of his young life.

"Fine." He closed his eyes as he spoke. "I'm in."

She looked just the slightest bit dejected at his answer ― she'd turned a young man against the law, after all ― but she still told him, "Meet me here at twelve this evening. And don't tell anyone."

As he wrapped himself in his overcoat and placed his hat on his unruly black hair, he was quite certain he was about to ruin his life.


	2. Con

**Note: completely destroyed the formatting of the story in Chapter One, and then on top of that, it nearly cut a fourth of the chapter off. So, you might want to go back and read, because you missed a bit. **

"So, where exactly are we going?" an anxious John asked, eyes darting around the dark street as he walked.

Next to him, the ever cool and collected Kanaya's step never once faltered. She seemed to be very familiar with their route, even as they left the pubs and busy docks and ventured into some kind of abandoned warehouse district, all of its buildings long and flat, all of its windows broken and covered. "You'll see. Perhaps it would be best if you don't ask too many questions when we arrive."

This did little to calm his nerves. He drummed his fingers on his thighs, wondering which of the concrete warehouses they would enter. They were all as uninviting as could be. John still didn't understand what he'd been thinking, but of course it was much too late to back out now. He was in too deep. He was about to enter a pirate's lair, for Christ's sake, and once he saw it, he imagined he would be sworn to secrecy with a penalty of death, should he refuse.

The most dilapidated of the buildings was their destination. One side was crumbling slightly, chunks of grey-white rubble piled on the dirt beside the structure. The door had long since been boarded; with practiced ease, Kanaya pushed back a black tarp and slid through a revealed window. John swallowed audibly and clambered through after her, nicking his gloves on the shards lining the bottom of the sill. He found himself in a room which he could, surprisingly, see in; the shock wore off when he looked up. The warehouse's roof had been cleared away completely, leaving the skies visible. The massive one-room building was easily large enough to house a sizeable airship. Maybe a few planes.

He was still dumbstruck when he leered through the gloomy air and saw that his estimations were _exactly _right. Taking up most of the floor space was a full-sized airship, slightly rusted and charcoal in colour. Someone had painted spider webs on its sides. John could see why it was called an "airship"; it looked as if any old steamship had been plucked from the ocean and outfitted with sails and wings and a propeller on its far end.

To add to his awe, he saw a number of small planes, the kind he knew inside and out, clustered around the airship. He stumbled to the nearest plane. It was a bronze-colored bird, and just by running his hand along its side, he could feel the ache to fly it swell in his chest. He patted the plane fondly and swiveled around to face Kanaya. She had crossed the enormous length of the warehouse-turned-hangar and was fiddling with a door he hadn't seen before.

He jogged to catch up to her. As he approached, she returned a brass key to her skirts and opened the flimsy door. A flight of stairs folded downward. She guided him down the steep steps, through another door, and into an underground hallway. Footprints cut through the carpet of dust on the floor. He began to hear voices in the walls, loud, male voices. Kanaya was about as reassuring as a brick; she walked ahead of him without speaking.

They traversed several more deserted halls, hearing traces of conversations in multiple rooms as they went. Kanaya tossed a glance back at him. "I think it would be best for you to let me do the talking and whatnot."

Before he could panic, she knocked on a heavy steel door. A gruff voice barked from the other side of it, "Password!"

"Mindfang."

The sound of several locks clicking filled the silence. When the door opened to admit them, a sawed-off shotgun immediately trained on them. No one moved. Then, a female voice from inside the room called, "Kan! Let her in, and put the damn gun down."

John tried to ease the raging nervousness in his stomach as he and Kanaya entered the room. It was dimly lit, plainly furnished, and filled with savage-looking men, armed to the teeth. The female speaker grinned brightly at them. She was seated at the head of a knobby old table, tapping her scarred fingers on a map.

"I thought I made myself clear. Kanaya is _always _welcome here."

The men (pirates?) bowed their heads at her words. John couldn't tell if they feared or respected the young woman; probably both, by the looks of her. Her grin was sharper than the sword at her waist. When her head turned, he saw a patch over her left eye. Kanaya seemed perfectly at ease as she tugged John with her and sat down at the table.

"You all can go now," the woman said lazily, waving one hand. Her crew dispersed. Somehow, being more alone with the enigmatic figure in front of him was more frightening, and he was grateful when Kanaya gently squeezed his hand under the table.

"I see you brought a friend." One dark blue eye jumped from Kanaya's face to John's and back. "I hope he isn't weak of heart."

"Drop the theatrics, please," Kanaya said dryly. "I have a request. My young friend here is a pilot and can't find work on, let's say, the _right side of the law_."

"A pilot, hm?" She leaned forward and scrutinized him, blue-painted lips curling around the "hm" and drawing it out. "Well, you _do _recommend him…"

The pirate paused in her speech. She was very predatory, John decided. "Fine. He's in."

Before he could react, she reached under the table and resurfaced with a sheathed pistol, which she passed to him. He took it with one shaking hand. "Wh-what's this for?"

She only laughed.

He swallowed and stashed the weapon under his coat. He was in deep, now; no backing out. A nervous smile painted his face. "So, er, when do I start?"

"Where did you find this one?" the pirate asked Kanaya, raising an eyebrow. "He's so…pure."

"Enough of that," Kanaya chided. "I don't believe you've introduced yourselves."

John jumped to his feet, holding out one hand. "I'm John! John Egbert."

"Captain Vriska Serket, to you," she replied, not shaking his hand. "Welcome to the fleet."

She stood and went to the cement fireplace in the corner of the room, reviving the flames with a poker. "I warn you, Mr. Egbert, this isn't going to be a walk in the park for you. I have to know…"

She spun around; the poker was still in her right hand, while her left hand held her hat loosely. Upon closer inspection, he saw that her hand, and possibly her whole arm, was automated, cast in silver. John dragged his gaze back to hers as she continued, "Are you willing to die for me?"

He wasn't sure what to say; so he just said yes.

* * *

Jake arrived at Dirk Strider's shop amidst a torrent of London rain. Shaking water from his hair ― he'd stupidly forgotten a hat ― he shut the door behind him. He brushed droplets from the broad shoulders of his coat and came up to the counter, where a blonde man wearing tinted spectacles stood. He had his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his orange vest was unbuttoned. The links of a watch chain snaked out from underneath it.

"Hullo," Jake said brightly, shaking the man's hand firmly. "I'm looking for a Dirk Strider. Would you happen to be him?"

"Depends," the man answered, tossing an oil-soaked rag over his shoulder. "Are you Jake English?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you can call me Mr. Strider."

Dirk motioned for Jake to follow him. They settled down in a parlor off to the side, where Jake accepted a cup of tea.

"We'll get right to it," Dirk said, all business. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "I lead a very dangerous life, Mr. English. I have enemies."

"What kind of enemies?" Despite himself, Jake's excitement blossomed.

Dirk clasped his hands in front of him. "More than a few. Pirates, the London Mob, the Metropolitan Police."

"And you want me to…"

"I need a partner of sorts," Dirk hedged. "Someone I can trust with my life. Are you up to the job, Mr. English?"

There was no hesitation; Jake stood in nanoseconds and held out his hand. "You've got your man, Mr. Strider!"

They shook on it and sat back down. Dirk rifled around in a drawer and slapped several black-and-white photographs down on the coffee table, pointing to the topmost one. The woman in the photo wore an eye-patch and a wide-brimmed hat. "Vriska Serket. Pirate extraordinaire. Watch out for her ― she's an ally, but a poor one at that."

He slid the photograph aside and pointed to the next one; a man, also dressed like a pirate, glared back at them from behind thick spectacles. "Eridan Ampora, Duke of Kent, cousin of the Queen. His crimes usually go unpunished, because think on it: Metropolitan Police can't exactly arrest the Duke, can they? He's ruthless."

"This is the Commissioner of the Police Pyrope, better known as Redglare by most. She's too clever for her own good, and her daughter" ― he moved Redglare's photo aside and to reveal a girl that bore a striking resemblance to her ― "is nearly as bright. Both of them are cause for concern."

"Alright."

Dirk held up the next photo. A bald man in a suit was pictured, with tattoos on his face that made him look like a living skull. "Lord Caliborn of Wales. At least, that's what he tells everyone. He's the most villainous crime boss in the London Mob, and he's out for blood. Remember him."

"Yes, sir." He didn't see how he could forget that face.

"That's about it," Dirk concluded. He looked up. "If you see the Duke, Caliborn, or the Commissioner, shoot to kill."

He blinked in surprise, but nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I think the two of will get along just fine, Mr. English."

* * *

Sollux Captor received Equius Zahhak's letter in the evening. He took the post in from the rain, shut the door behind him, and settled down in his kitchen. The envelope was light in his hand. Curious, he read the letter as he set water to boil. It read:

_Destroy the program._

Sollux let the sheaf of parchment slip between his fingers to the floor. He knew what this meant. The automaton had worked, and if what Equius believed was true ― that spies had seen the technology ― he was the next target. Not bothering to turn off the stove, he made for his office. The many engines around the room, some analytical, some difference, chugged quietly. He ripped open his desk drawer and withdrew a file. It was not labeled.

He opened it. His hands didn't shake; he was calm. His notes were still there. His program was safe. He closed the folder and turned on the spot, ready to toss it into the fire and put the mess behind him. He had made great leaps in science, but he and Equius knew: the world was not ready for the responsibility.

As it happened, he could not incinerate the program; someone was standing in front of the fireplace. Three someones, in fact.

The man in front watched with disinterest, hands in the pockets of his bright green suit. His vivid red bowtie added to the strange style of dress. The man's mouth was in a carefully flat line, because had he smiled, the tattoos of fangs around his lips would have warped beyond recognition. Tattoos at his temples and cheekbones made him appear even more skeletal. Behind him, two burly men in black stood menacingly.

"Mr. Captor," the man said. "I'll be taking that."

Sollux made a move to tear the program in two, to somehow salvage the situation; the men were faster. The two thugs grabbed his upper arms in vise-like grips. The skull-faced man took the folder, nodding at its contents. He didn't smile. Instead, he tucked the file into his jacket and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Sollux.

"I like to play games," he said, simply. "And I like to win even more."

With that, he made a gesture Sollux didn't understand. He vaguely saw the muzzle of a gun; vaguely heard the beam of aether.

After that there was only darkness, and pain.

* * *

"I should be happy," Feferi Peixes whispered to herself, and truthfully, she was right.

She stood and walked to the drawing room's window, raising her silk-gloved hand to the smooth glass. The palace's immaculate lawns unfolded beneath her. Everything she saw was perfect in every way, perfect and clean and untouched. She hated it. And for that, surely she was the most ungrateful girl to ever live. She was the _princess _of _England _and somehow, she was still not happy.

A servant appeared at her side, doting. _Does Your Royal Highness need anything?_

_ No._

_ Of course, Your Highness._

When she was alone again, she sat down in her ridiculously large skirts and turned a cup in its saucer with her little finger. She tried to _force _herself to be satisfied. She took in the splendors around her, the privileges so many people didn't have. But that made her feel worse. While she lived amongst the richest and most powerful, her people ― her mother's people, actually ― died in the streets, starved or murdered or worse.

Feferi had no idea what she was doing; one moment, she was sitting quietly, and the next, she was bounding to the telephone. There was a number she had been instructed to call should the need arise.

Her fingers slipped as she dialed, but after several attempts she managed it. The tone that followed was harsh in her ear.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end of the line was questioning, wary, and Feferi knew why.

"Eridan," she whispered. The servants were always watching, she knew. Her mother had told them to do so. But she was alone in the room, and so long as she kept her voice down, she would be safe.

"Fef?" he asked, voice lowering as well.

"I want to go with you."

He faltered. "Are…you sure? If Her Majesty were to find out…"

"I don't care," she said, firmly. "I can't sit here anymore. Come get me."

"Alright, alright. I'll be there as soon as I can. You'd better think up an excuse now," he advised. And with that, the Duke of Kent ended the call.

She hurried upstairs and changed into the clothes she'd smuggled into her room. They weren't very flashy or attention grabbing, and would be right at home in London's back ways. She hid her face with a wide-brimmed hat and trotted down the servants' staircase, knowing full well her mother's spies would be waiting for her on the main stairs. They were becoming predictable.

The cook was mercifully absent, so she ducked through the kitchens and onto the back lawns. A circuit around the east side of the palace and she found herself a few meters shy of the driveway, where several guards (read: drones) marched in perfect tempo, all in step. They weren't actually defending the palace; as if automatons could handle guns! But they _were _equipped with cameras and able to snap forty photographs per second. Best to stay away from them, she knew, so she scurried past them, using hedges as cover, and slipped onto the street through the open front gates.

Eridan made good time. His sleek black automobile putted to a stop within minutes, steam curling from the exhaust. He held the passenger door open for her. They were still in the clear, since no guards were in pursuit, and Feferi allowed herself a sigh of relief.

They left the main streets and soon found themselves at the London Harbor, south side. She'd only ever been to the north side before; it was more "princess-friendly" and outfitted with a myriad of diplomats and rich folk boarding and leaving luxurious ships. The south side was much grittier. Already, she could see that there were more than a few wanted men about. Eridan kept one hand tight on her arm as he marched her from his vehicle to the docks.

One stretch of wooden walkway later, they stopped. Feferi peered over the edge of the dock curiously. And there it was. Eridan's submarine, three-hundred-fifty feet in length, thirty feet in width, and partially hidden by the pulsing grey waves and thick, salty fog.

Eridan's submarine was used primarily for his pirate raids.

She knew this, and yet she allowed him to help her down the frayed rope ladder and through the hatch, into the pirate's vessel.

* * *

John's lies were all planned out by the time he came home. Dave and Jade were under the impression that a wealthy man who owned a private postage service had hired him, and because it was not government-funded, John would be flying his plane at all hours of the day. It would help if he was involved in a raid that took place at midnight. Nonetheless, he hated lying to his friends.

It was at the tender hour of four one morning when he woke, nervous, sweating, and on the verge of vomiting, and dressed silently. He was about to become a real, actual criminal.

He shimmied down the drain pipe and onto the street, then stole away through the shadows of London, setting course for the warehouse. It was silent and still around the building. He'd somehow expected hoards of pirates to be flocking in and out, or any indication that organized crime was taking place, really.

As soon as he crept through the broken window and set the tarp back in place, he realized that all of the action was going on _inside_.

There was no sound. Everyone had a task, yet not one burly pirate opened his mouth. John stared in surprise. Some crew members were boarding the airship, lugging supplies; others were climbing into small planes. It occurred to John that he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He walked forward, skittering out of the way when a monster of a man passed. He tried to right himself, but it was too late ― he bumped into someone that was, surprisingly, smaller than him.

The captain turned and raised her eyebrows at him.

He swallowed. He was in for it now. He'd just stumbled into the ruthless leader of a band of pirates, and surely she was going to cut off his fingers or something similar as punishment―

"Watch where you're going, Mr. Egbert," she advised, apparently uninterested. "Your bird is over there."

He gasped out some reply and escaped before he could embarrass himself further. The plane she'd indicated was definitely not in mint condition, but he couldn't complain. He hauled himself into the cockpit and buckled his seatbelt. It was spectacular, to be behind the controls again. He smiled, gripped the throttle with one hand, and flicked the switch on his radio. It crackled to life.

Things were clearing up on the hangar's floor. A few stragglers rushed to where they needed to be, then the hatch leading into the belly of the airship swung shut, like some kind of sign. Instantly, engines started up around him. John fired up the plane with a satisfied yank of a lever and a few switches.

All other sounds were dwarfed when the massive airship's boilers were fed, producing a roar of fire that penetrated the hull. John fumbled to drag his goggles onto his eyes and place bulky headphones over his ears at the same time. Captain Serket's voice wavered over the line.

"Hello, _darlings_," she greeted, drawing out words the way she tended to. "We have quite a lot to do tonight, don't we? As long as you listen closely, we're likely to get out of this with our lives. Your objective is to kill everything that stands in your way, and the rest…the rest, you'll figure out all on your own."

John felt a jolt of panic. He really had no idea what to do. All he had been told was that since he was flying a small craft, he'd be clearing the way for the airship. Nothing more. As these directions weren't very explanatory, he had reason to be worried.

The first two birds took off. John was the third to last to take flight, idling on the dusty concrete floor for a while before working on the controls. He breathed out slowly as the nose tilted up. Soon, he cleared the building itself, until he was leveling out at around ten thousand meters. The airship loomed in his mirrors. Suddenly, the radio sparked again. A navigator began shouting orders.

"Blackbeard to fifty-four and two-fifths north, zero and six-tenths west…"

The plane dubbed Blackbeard dipped to the left at the navigator's command. John listened carefully for his codename ― Con ― and the coordinates that would follow. He didn't want to be the idiot who couldn't adjust his flight pattern; that would be mortifying.

"Con," the navigator ordered. "Two degrees to the right! Get with it, lad."

John blushed, glad that no one could see his face, and angled the bird to the right. He was surviving. He was a pirate. He was on his way to commit a crime, and despite this all, a certain thrill tickled up and down his spine.

"Up ahead!" This time the captain's voice came over the radio. She sounded like she was simply having a smashing time. "Target in sight, get your arses in motion!"

John leaned forward and squinted through the smoggy air. There it was ― the cargo ship they planned on plundering. It was a bit bigger than the pirate's airship, but slower and heavier. John tightened his hands on the throttle. He could do this. But he couldn't help but think of the captain's words: _"…kill everything that stands in your way…"_

The navigator started up again, with greater urgency. "Con, get your guns on the right wing. Bronze, get on left…"

John froze. He had hoped he'd be able to slide by without shooting; those hopes were crushed. His thumbs shook over the red buttons that would fire his Gatling guns. Did he really want to do this? He could always land, get back to the States, accept his father's disappointment…

He took a deep breath. His thumbs stilled, and then pressed down.

The flash of muzzle fire lit up the underside of his vision. Stomach in knots, he trained the fire on the right side of the airship, tearing wings to pieces. The left side was equally damaged. As the cargo ship began to sink, the pirate ship gathered speed, hovering over the wrecked craft. John watched in awe. The pirate ship lowered several chains from its hull, snagging the cargo ship in its grasp, so that it was suspended midair. Then, quick and lithe, pirates began to climb down the chains, dropping onto the deck of the cargo ship.

John tried to provide cover fire from the air, but it was near impossible. The pirates and the cargo ship's crew clashed, swords flashing, guns blasting. Soon enough the pirates overcame their victims. John was thankful that from where he was, he couldn't see any blood. Meanwhile, crates were being lifted into the hull of the airship. The whole operation had taken less than ten minutes.

The radio came to life once more. The navigator's voice: "Good show. We're just about done here ― _son of a _―!"

The flashing red lights made themselves known seconds later. The navigator's swears eventually became a warning. _"Metropolitan Police! Scatter, scatter, scatter!"_

John twisted in his seat. Coming up _fast_, a few rickety (but effective) aircrafts eclipsed his vision. They all bore the Queen's crest on one side and the Metropolitan Police logo ― a set of scales ― on the other. So the police had found them. John beat down the fear in his chest and followed his orders, pushing down on the throttle and dropping into a stomach-flattening nose dive. The airship let the wrecked cargo ship go and spun out of the way. It was chaos, planes everywhere, the hulking airship disappearing into the cloud cover, with the lightweight police crafts trying to round up the stragglers.

The navigator pieced together a last few orders. "Take the long way back to base. If you think for one _goddamn second _that you're being trailed, don't come within fifty kilos!"

And with that, the radio died, and John was alone.

The city was coming up to meet him at a sickening rate. He pulled out of the dive and craned his neck to look up; it seemed he'd escaped without being noticed. He forced the plane into a reluctant U-turn and pushed it to full speed. The last thing he wanted was a police craft to bear down on him, but all the way back to the hangar, the skies were empty around him. He circled above the warehouse for several minutes before coming to a rocky landing inside.

He was the first one back. The first thing he did when he unstrapped himself was dash outside and vomit in the grass; afterwards, he sat down against the building and put his head between his knees. It spun for a while. He was vaguely certain some of the others were landing in the hangar behind him, but for the time being he needed a moment to himself.

After a while he stood on shaking legs and reentered the hangar. The airship was back, all in one piece, and pirates were streaming from it, carrying heavy crates. The fruits of their labor. John knew that the cargo would be sold underground soon, turning out a huge profit, but that wasn't his area of expertise. He would just stick to flying and try not to throw up again.

"So? What did you think?"

John stiffened, revolving in place. Captain Serket's eye glinted with excitement.

"I…I think I'm in shock." He pinched his arm. "Yes. Shock."

"That's the spirit!" As she walked away, she sheathed her sword. It was stained red from tip to hilt.

He could not believe this was what he was doing with his life.

**I'm really awful for making you wait so long for two, but school started and ugh, you know the deal. Updates should be more regular from here on out.**


End file.
